


Holding Back

by SnowStormSkies



Series: Surrender [4]
Category: Tokio Hotel
Genre: BDSM, M/M, Masturbation, Multi, Mutual Masturbation
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-09-01
Updated: 2013-09-01
Packaged: 2017-12-25 07:22:17
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,122
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/950284
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/SnowStormSkies/pseuds/SnowStormSkies
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>
  <i>Tom wants nothing more than to lean back, close his eyes, let nature tell him how to do this, but Georg and Gustav want him to pay attention. It’s pushing him to his limits, but Tom can’t say no yet - he’s just got to hold on and try to focus on the prize. </i>
</p><p> </p><p> </p><p>Tom has to win this - he wants that prize so fucking bad. But Georg and Gustav have other ideas....</p>
            </blockquote>





	Holding Back

**Author's Note:**

> Written for Bring Back the Porn challenge on September first :D

“Shush…” Georg changes his grip on Tom’s wrist, forcing him to stop. “Look at Gustav, Tom.”

Tom can barely think, never mind doing anything difficult like opening his eyes or paying attention to anything but his dick and the urge to come. He wants to – fuck, does he want to – but he can’t. He shakes his head and feels Georg sigh behind him, bringing his legs further apart, exposing Tom even more.

“Do you want to safe word?” Georg asks flat out, and it’s because Tom struggles to find the balance between taking it because he can and because he feels he has to. Georg asking is making him confront it, ask himself that question, and see what the answer is.

“…Nngh.” Tom shakes his head, grunts the noise out from behind gritted teeth. He doesn’t want to safeword - he’s not hurting, and he knows he’s safe, and he feels like if he did, they’d listen immediately but it’s just he’s so fucking shit at this game, he’s going to lose anyway.

“Words, Tom.” And that’s Bill, somewhere over the other side of the room, still painting his nails, judging from the acrid scent of acetone in the air.

It’s a classic scenario for them, ever since Tom was sixteen, and so fucking lost - Tom involved with Georg and Gustav, trapped in a sexual game while Bill sits off to the side, indulging his own need for personal grooming but keeping an eye on everything.

Bill possesses this remarkable ability to check out of a sexually charged atmosphere at will, Tom has learned, leaving Tom at the mercy of Georg and Gustav while he remains immersed in a magazine or, like now, painting his nails. He just absolutely appears to not be in the room - he could be on a beach in Bali for all Tom can tell, not even popping wood.

It’s a fucking unfair deal, that, given that Tom can’t go five fucking minutes without pitching a tent, or so it feels.

The video camera on the side is another set of eyes in the room that Tom doesn’t feel comfortable with.

Bill brought it in to their games a few weeks ago, but Tom has yet to see the results - Bill and Gustav are working on editing and adding shit to it. Maybe. Or they could be just wanking off to it - Tom doesn’t know. They just disappear reguarly into the den of the bus, leaving Tom to Georg’s mercies, and telling him to be good.

“Look at Gustav, Tom,” Bill reminds him from the other side of the room and Tom groans through clenched teeth.

It’s fucking evil, Tom thinks, because when he’s caught between the other two in a horrible web of sex and having to be obedient, he could do with Bill on his side. Not filming him for late night masturbation material or whatever.

“Use your words, Tomi.” Tom can’t see Bill – but he can hear the smirk in his words, and really, he’d turn to look, but Georg’s hand comes up to his chin, redirects him to look at Gustav, and Tom gets the message.

Answer the question.

“…N-no!” Christ, that was hard to get out, but he did, and Georg laughs softly.

“Good boy,” he praises, stroking down Tom’s chest, letting the firm weight of his hand reassure and soothe away the trembling that Tom has deep inside of him. This is intense, and he’s barely holding on. “Watch Gustav, Tom.”

Tom does watch. He leans his head back into Georg’s shoulder, lets him take his weight as Gustav starts up again, feels Georg slip his hand from around his wrist to rest on his hip.

It’s an odd position to be in – Tom lying between Georg’s spread legs, back to Georg’s chest, being restrained with just Georg’s body as Gustav sits on a chair at the foot of the bed.

Masturbating.

Yeah.

Tom doesn’t quite get how it got to this point – Georg is incredibly convincing when he wants to be, and Tom is useless against the promise of sex – but now, he can feel Georg’s hardon, barely constrained in jeans, pressing against his back as he sits naked between Georg’s legs, staring at Gustav as he masturbates on the chair.

And Tom has to follow him.

Every stroke, every touch, Tom has to copy them all faithfully, holding off when Gustav does, letting his own pleasure be dictated to by Gustav’s, even though he’s hard and leaking all over the fucking bed and desperate to just end it now.  Gustav is a fucking bastard. He likes it slow and steady, and with long pauses to enjoy the push and pull of sex, the rising feelings, the urges that send everything inside of him racing and Tom just…

Well, his own personal style is quick and easy and pretty cheap, when you compare it to Gustav’s fucking masterclass style but that’s because Tom seeks pleasure in it’s rawest, most basic form, letting nature guide him through it to make his orgasm as quick and explosive as possible.

Gustav likes to chase the high and the rush for a while.

Tom whimpers, his fingers faltering, and Georg is straight back in there again, holding him by the wrist as Gustav halts again.

“Is he making noise?” Georg asks, straight into Tom’s ear. Fuck. “Answer the question, Tom…”

No. Gustav is silent when he’s masturbating or having sex – so fucking quiet it’s unbelievable, the only sounds from him are heaving breathing and sighs. It’s a Gustav thing. And Tom isn’t. Ever. He whimpers, he cries, he sobs, and moans and begs and pleads and is just… everything that Gustav is not.

This isn’t sex, it’s fucking torture, he thinks hysterically. But Georg is still awaiting an answer.

“No,” he whispers, and Georg makes him repeat himself, answering the question. “No, he’s not m-making noise!”

“Then should you be?”

“N-no.” He has to copy Gustav in everything. Including being silent.

“Good boy, Tom,” Bill encourages from the side of the room, and Tom can still hear him painting his nails or something, the crinkle of paper as he reads his magazine.

Fuck off, Bill.

But Gustav moves again, and Tom follows obediently, watching and copying as he leans back, spreads his knees a little more. Tom wants nothing more than to lean back, close his eyes, let nature tell him how to do this, but Georg and Gustav want him to pay attention.

It’s pushing him to his limits, but Tom can’t say no yet - he’s just got to hold on and try to focus on the prize.

It’s their game tonight, and Georg is leading Tom through it.

Georg strokes Tom’s hip a little more, making shushing noises in his ear when Tom almost chokes out a moan, praising him for not coming yet. Nothing is holding Tom back physically tonight – it’s all mental submission and resistance to orgasm that’s keeping him on this side of orgasm.

That, and the thought of the prize that they’ve put up for him.

Double or nothing, Georg dubbed this challenge and the prize, and it means whatever Tom wants it to mean. He gets one (or more, at Georg’s discretion) orgasm however he wants it – sex with whoever or on his own, in a specific scenario or just… anything. It’s a rare as all hell gift because usually Tom’s pleasure is left up to whoever is his lead at the time, and he’s damned if it’s not how he wants it.

But the flip side – and the thing that Tom is dreading failure because of – is the nothing part. Georg gets his way with Tom for period of time as yet undisclosed, and Tom knows that Georg won’t play soft and sweet then.

It could be anything. Sex, no sex, bondage, spanking, chastity for a month – anything. Within the usual limits of course, Georg is very keen on those, and Tom knows it won’t be outside them, but that still leaves a hell of a lot of room for Georg to play with, and he fucking loves to play.

He’s really fucking inventive like that.

Tom bites back another whimper, shakes his head, tries to focus on Gustav. It’s hard though. Everywhere feels slick with sweat and lube, and he can’t get his brain to make the connections between what he’s seeing and how his hand should move fast enough. He can sense how close he is, but the clock on the wall over Gustav’s head tells him that only eighteen minutes have passed.

He has to make it to thirty to win. Another twelve minutes of fucking his own damn hand, and Tom knows the truth.

There’s no way he can do this.

Tom sensed right from the beginning that he wouldn’t make it – there’s been no set up to this, so he’s not prepared to go for long, and Georg’s hands on his chest, running down the inside of his thighs, stroking over his nipples, are deliberately undermining what little control he has left.

He shakes his head, tries to breathe, but his chest hitches. Fuck.

“Tom?”

He wants to throw the towel in – say he’ll take the punishment and fuck it – but he knows that Georg won’t let him. Tom doesn’t get to bow out when he feels like he can’t do it – his relief or lack of it is up to his lead, not to Tom. Safewords notwithstanding.

“Good boy,” Gustav praises him, but Tom doesn’t understand why. He’s being a dick, and holding Tom’s pleasure hostage.

Gustav reaches for the lube again, and Tom has to follow, holding his hand out for Georg to squirt some more into his palm. It’s a proper Gustav thing - he likes it wet and messy, and Tom is struggling to keep up with it. It’s so new and strange, making everything slick and cool around his dick, oozing down to his balls and even further south and it’s just fucking weird.  Georg gives Tom a double handful, waits for Gustav to discard the tube again, and then wraps Tom’s hand around his dick. “Are you ready?”

Tom wants to shake his head.

But he breathes another deep sigh, lets his head roll back a little. “Yes, Georg.”

He’s got to win.

Another five minutes passed – twenty three minutes into the thirty – but Gustav is still holding strong. It’s fucking amazing how well he can control himself, and Tom has a great deal of envy, but right now his attention is focused on his own dick.

And the slick white come that’s splattered across both his and Georg’s hands.

Fuck. Fuck. He fucking lost it – how fucking close was he to winning?! – another seven minutes…. Tom pants, staring at his hand in equal measures of confusion and horror as Georg holds him carefully by the wrist, making sure he doesn’t get come on the bed sheets. Never mind that they’re covered in lube and precome already - it’s the come that’ll soil them. Ha fucking ha.

He was – but… he wasn’t… Georg doesn’t say a word, but Tom can fucking feel the disappointment radiating from him. Or maybe it’s not disappointment – maybe it’s joy because he gets Tom all to himself now for a whole fucking day, but it’s not the pride in Tom that it was supposed to be.

Gustav finishes himself off quickly because there’s no need to hold back anymore, his orgasm long, and pleasurable judging from the expression on his face, and the way he ends up boneless on the chair afterwards, but Tom can’t focus on that now.

“Oh dear, Tom,” Georg whispers straight into Tom’s ear, and Bill tuts from across the room. Georg’s fingers are warm on Tom’s pulse point in his neck, and he has a direct line into Tom’s thought process. The pounding of his heart tells Georg exactly what he needs to know about how Tom is feeling right now.

Fear. Panic. Still climbing down from the unexpected high.

Gustav’s eyes are dark as he stares at Tom, his face mostly impassive. Tom wants to know how – how – Gustav is feeling about Tom’s failure, but he doesn’t get anything except Gustav’s tiny smirk that says he’s going to enjoy Tom’s punishment. .

Fuck.

“I think this,” Georg lets go of Tom’s come splattered hand, sweeps two fingers through a slowly cooling pool of white, on Tom’s belly, holds it up to the light, “means you lose.”

It glistens in the sunlight, the symbol of Tom’s failure, and it fucking sucks.

Bill’s video camera blinks out of the corner of Toms’ eye as Georg lifts his fingers to Tom’s lips, feeding him the come that cost him his victory.

Shit.


End file.
